


Une Histoire D'Amour

by rice_and_beans



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adultery, Bury your straights, Dark Fleur, Dark Fleur Delacour, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, Fleurmione Week 2020, Manipulative Relationship, Soulmates, buried under thrall, day 6: soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26031241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rice_and_beans/pseuds/rice_and_beans
Summary: A love story.Chapter 2 is part of Fleurmione Week 2020 Collection
Relationships: Fleur Delacour & Hermione Granger, Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger
Comments: 48
Kudos: 177
Collections: Fleurmione Week 2020





	1. Into the Belly of the Beast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kamaro0917](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamaro0917/gifts).



"Ms. Granger-" the Scottish woman began.

"It's Delacour now," Hermione corrected her old mentor with a small smile.

"Hermione," the older witch started again. "I was under the impression that we would be meeting with just you today. Alone." 

McGonagall tilted her head down slightly and looked at the Gryffindor over her thin-framed spectacles. 

"I don't know why you would be under such an impression. And you are not alone. Besides, Fleur is my wife." Hermione's voice was hollow, emotionless. Her brown eyes were darker than the Headmistress remembered. There was no light in them. 

"Perhaps it was just wishful thinking," McGonagall replied evenly. She would use every ounce of will power and poise she had to not react emotionally to the scene before her. 

Hermione Delacour née Granger sat across a coffee table from her, composed and calmly sipping tea. There she was, in the flesh. She looked healthy, uninjured, not under any visible duress. When McGonagall first entered the room with the three aurors and Head of the Auror Office, Harry Potter, she didn't know what to expect, but it wasn't this. 

Harry and Minerva tried to arrange for the meeting to be in a public place, or at least on neutral ground, but the Veela and her lion had refused. They insisted the meeting take place at Delacour Manor. The Head Auror and McGonagall didn't have any leverage. There was no hard evidence of any crime, no cries for help, and no out-politicking one of the most influential Veela clans in France.

<><><>

McGonagall took in the estate as the group made their way to the home. She couldn't say it was anything less than magnificent. The grounds were pristine with a perfectly manicured lawn. Intricate rock, tree and flower gardens decorated the landscape. The cobbled walkway from the gate swept around a large stone fountain with sculptures of beautiful and dangerous-looking women. She eyed it curiously as they walked onward past. The manor itself looked almost intimidating in its size, its ostentatious architecture, and with ivy almost seductively adorning brick. Before anyone in their small party could raise a fist to knock, the heavy white doors groaned open to allow them entry. 

The interior was just as daunting as the outside of the home, but for different reasons entirely. In addition to the gaudy, overly-elaborate design, art, and decor, they were greeted with quite a fearsome sight. Throughout the grand foyer were Veela, menacingly beautiful, most scantily clad, tracking every movement of the group. They were dotted about everywhere: splayed out on furniture, lounging on the extravagant curved grand staircase, while others were simply standing and watching the group as they passed. The air was thick with thrall, even McGonagall could feel it. The men tried futilely to avert their eyes, becoming increasingly more uncomfortable as they passed under the predatory gaze of the Veela.

The entry doors closed with a loud thud. The wizards and witch spun around to see two twin auburn-haired, dusky Veela leaning with their backs flush against the party's means of escape, as the room suddenly became filled with hisses, chirps, and clicks. McGonagall was certain they were ensnared in a trap until Fleur and Hermione appeared at the top of the staircase. However, as they began to descend the older witch found she was still not at ease. When they reached the first floor, Fleur let out a single low warning note. The chatter stopped. The lead Veela and the Lion nodded in sync to the group and then led their guests through a large, wooden set of double doors and into the drawing room.


	2. Made for Each Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we find out how their romance began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a submission for Fleurmione Week, Day 6: Soulmates.  
> TW: dubious consent, emotional manipulation, manipulative relationship.

Over the past several years they had been losing Hermione. It was a slow disappearance, or kidnapping, if you asked her former close circle. At least over the past year. They didn’t notice right away, as after the war the young Gryffindor had begun to withdraw socially more and more. She went to work at Flourish and Blotts, and then she went home. They understood, of course, because the war left scars and open wounds upon them all. She just needed time, they thought, and the support of her friends. But no one could quite reach her. 

That was until Fleur Weasley took interest. 

It started after Hermione joined the Weasley's at one of their Sunday dinners. It had been months since the Gryffindor had been to one, and she only went to put an end to Harry, Ron and Ginny's incessant letters and floo calls. She was quiet, deflated, gaunt and turned into herself. Most in attendance were not quite sure how to interact with Hermione, and after several failed attempts, awkwardly moved away and left her to her brooding while dinner was still being prepared. 

When Mr. and Mrs. Bill Weasley arrived, they made their rounds to greet everyone with kisses and hugs. Fleur, who never came to these dinners as she spent most weekends with her family in France, had changed her mind last minute and come back to England that very afternoon. After hello’s she immediately left Bill's side, went to the sitting room, and perched herself on the arm of the couch next to the dark and sullen woman. 

Hermione’s gaze was focused down at her lap. She hardly acknowledged Fleur's presence. The Veela observed the woman curiously, head cocking this way and that, not saying a word or engaging. When Bill came through the doorway he momentarily froze, before starting to walk toward the women with purposeful steps. Fleur held up her hand to stop him in his tracks.

"Fleur," his voice was low and held an accusatory tone, but Fleur just waved her hand dismissively. When he turned away to leave, his fists were balled and his face was red. He needed a drink. 

When Hermione's friends returned to the sitting room they took in the odd sight. Hermione was sitting up and staring at Fleur who stared right back. Their hands were connected between their bodies, palms pressed to palms. Chests rose and fell, expanded and contracted, breathing in sync. 

"We will be there shortly," the Veela stated simply without taking her eyes off of the witch in front of her. 

For the rest of the visit Hermione and Fleur remained by each other's sides touching. Arms were looped, pinkies wrapped around each other’s, or shoulders pressed against each other, and Fleur was often adjusting or brushing brown locks out of the brunette’s face. And the Gryffindor started to speak as the evening wore on, adding bits to the conversation here and there. There were a few almost-genuine smiles and small polite laughs. At the end of the night, the other members of the Golden Trio and Ginny pulled Fleur aside and thanked her for getting through to Hermione. Molly was wringing her hands together in excitement and relief to see glimpses of the young girl she loved so much coming back to herself. She couldn't stop hugging Fleur and thanking her. Arthur too looked grateful and took the Veela in a warm embrace. A hug from George and Angelina followed. Bill stood irritability near the door. 

"You'll look after her, won't you?" The matronly Weasley pleaded with the blonde. 

"Bien sûr," she replied, before offering to take Hermione home. The witch nodded 'yes' and Bill slammed the door on his way out. 

The blonde Veela started visiting the shell-shocked Gryffindor every other week. Then weekly. Then daily. They were all grateful when Fleur was able to coax Hermione back into both society and their company again. They watched as the Golden Girl blossomed. Hermione, formerly the bushy-haired, charmless know-it-all, was changing before their very eyes. Shapeless clothes were exchanged for smart and fitted outfits; wild unmanageable hair turned to smooth, bouncy and defined locks; defensive and guarded insecurity fell away to attractive, easy confidence in appearance and self. Perhaps even more astonishing and importantly, she glowed. Hermione was radiant, especially when she was with Fleur. Hermione’s friends were especially relieved when they heard she was thinking about and planning for her future, something she hadn’t expressed any real interest in since the war.

The Gryffindor decided to go back to Hogwarts to finish her schooling, but her plans regarding her return confused them. It was then that they noticed that perhaps they had been ignoring something glaringly obvious and strange. So thankful were they to have Hermione back that they never stopped to consider why it was that they only saw her when Fleur was around. Where Fleur went, she went. If Fleur wasn't going to attend a get-together or event, Hermione wouldn’t show either. And well, Fleur began to accompany Hermione on her walk into town for her shifts at Flourish and Blotts, but on the days she didn't, Hermione began to stop going. And then there were the days she would show up midday only to tell Hermione it was time to go, and so Hermione would go, even in the middle of her shift. The owners loved the Gryffindor, but could only forgive and excuse so much. Eventually, with heavy hearts, they had to let her go. 

Harry tried to talk to her about it, but to no avail. Ron tried to talk to her about it, but also had no success. Ginny tried to yell, to scream, to beg for Hermione to return to them. To separate herself from Fleur because there was clearly something going on, something toxic and sick, and that damned Veela was at the center of it. Hermione had ignored Harry and ignored Ron, or brushed their concerns off with ease, but when Ginny brought up Fleur, Hermione drew her wand and jabbed it so harshly and quickly into the redhead’s cheek that the force knocked the younger witch to the ground. Hermione and her wand followed, never breaking contact. Ginny hadn't even been able to process the threat that came out of the brunette’s mouth until after she disapparated, rubbing blood from her cheek where vine wood had assaulted: to leave her soulmate's name out of her mouth or...well, the youngest Weasley couldn’t even bring herself to repeat the threats that turned her blood ice cold. Ginny stopped talking to or about Hermione after that.

And for a while no one knew about the growing rift between Fleur and Bill, or the complete disregard Fleur had about the matter. At first, Bill would come home only to find the house empty save for an unfeeling note that informed him in the most succinct of ways that Fleur was visiting Hermione. Eventually the notes stopped, but still the visits continued, often extending overnight and leaving his bed cold and empty. Bill wasn't a fool. He confronted his wife about it, but she simply told him he could leave her if he wished. He did not. And then there would be the times when he would return home and see them together. 

Initially Hermione would have the decency to jerk away and create distance between herself and Fleur when Bill walked into the room. But then that decency began to fade until she didn’t anymore. He'd come home to intimate embraces and close faces on the couch, against a wall, atop a table, on the rug in front of the fireplace. He would yell at Fleur who in turn would just serve him a cold glare before apparating the two witches to the other one's home.

He decided to change tactics and confront Hermione the next time he saw them, as he was just as certain he would catch them again as he was certain he was a Weasley. And he did. He came home and felt it first. The air in his house was thick and humid with thrall. And then he heard them. Keening and whining and moaning. Notes he had never himself been able to elicit from his wife. It made him sick, yes, but he was just a mortal wizard and his body was responding to the dark sexual magic flooding down the halls. He willed himself to clear his mind from carnal thoughts as he made his way through Shell Cottage. He followed the noises past the living room, past the kitchen, and up the stairs. _No_ . He thought to himself. _Not in the bedroom_. He could smell them as he ascended the stairs. 

The door wasn't even closed and what a sight to behold. Hermione was tied to the bed on her back, with Fleur straddling her face, knee on either side of the brunette's head, rocking her womanhood against the younger witch’s mouth. Fleur's head was thrown back and she was releasing curses and moans and directions and hissing and whines and clicking and praises and Bill fell to his knees. Fleur turned her gaze to him but did not stop. She wove her fingers into brown tresses and kept riding and crying out until she was overcome and peaking. Bill was still crumpled on the floor, unsure of when tears started running down his face as he watched his wife slowly dismount the Gryffindor, and then wandlessly release the binds that held her in place. Fleur was gently whispering sweet nothings and reassurances to the younger witch, held her close and caressed, and Hermione herself looked completely come undone. She was begging. Begging Fleur to please, please don't stop yet, she needed more. Tears matching Bill's were streaming down her face.

He did not confront her that night. He stumbled down the stairs and out the front door and off of the property to somewhere, anywhere else.

He tried again another night. He came home before the twisted pair so he could tear into them before they started. Instead of yelling at Fleur, he turned to the brunette instead. Where was the loyal, kind and compassionate Gryffindor he knew? The one his family took in and treated as their own? The Golden Girl went from looking ashamed to looking distant, faraway and unbothered by Bill. He turned to the Veela in the room; he knew it was the thrall. Fleur smirked, wrapped her arms possessively around Hermione, buried her nose to her throat and inhaled. When her eyes snapped back to her husband she only gave a 'Goodbye, Bill,' before disapparating with her witch.

When it was time for Hermione to return to Hogwarts she insisted that Fleur be allowed to stay with her and come and go as she pleased through unrestricted floo access. McGonagall thought it was some peculiar joke, of course. It was simply preposterous to have someone who was not a student or part of the faculty stay, and to allow someone that was not faculty unrestricted access on and off the grounds was even more absurd. Hermione sat in her office calmly telling her that these were her terms for return. The headmistress had difficulty focusing on the young bright witch seated on the other side of her desk, as her eyes kept wandering past her to Fleur. The Veela was standing silently behind Hermione, with one hand resting on the brunette’s shoulder. There was something off. McGonagall couldn't quite put a finger on it, but she always trusted her intuition. 

So she said 'no.' And Hermione said nothing. Instead, to the headmistress’s surprise, it was Fleur who responded, her voice firm and spoken with finality.

"We understand. Thank you for your time, professor." She squeezed Hermione’s shoulder and the brunette pushed back her chair to stand. McGonagall, alarmed, got up as well. This was not what she was expecting. None of it was. 

"Now wait just a moment. Hermione, you still need to finish school. But I can't just allow-"

"We understand. Thank you for your time, professor." It was Hermione who replied this time. Her voice was hollow, gaze far off, as she echoed Fleur’s words. Before the Headmistress could think of how to handle the situation, the Veela spoke again and she caressed her witch’s cheek, but this time McGonagall wasn't sure if she was speaking to her or Hermione.

"Beauxbatons is open to accepting transfer students, particularly ones as gifted as Mrs.- Ms. Granger. The education is superior and living arrangements will be made without difficulty." And with that, the Veela took Hermione by the hand and walked across the room to the fireplace. McGonagall began to call after her star pupil, but the pair were soon gone in a burst of yellow-green flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! I always appreciate feedback and critique. 
> 
> Also! Do yourself a favor and check out the AO3 Fleurmione Week collection to stay up to date with all of the authors' stories. Each day has a different prompt, and what has come out so far has been amazing! You can find it here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/FleurmioneWeek2020
> 
> You can also check out the Tumblr page which has a very clever synopsis of each day, with works from AO3, FFN, and some artwork all in one place: https://fleurmioneweek.tumblr.com/


	3. The Sowing of the Harvest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before there was Fleur and Hermione, there was Fleur and Bill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is dedicated to my friend Wath to brighten up her Tuesday. 
> 
> This chapter is partially inspired by Elizabeth Gilbert's line about soulmates being a miror for their partner:  
> "People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life."
> 
> Please check the updated tags for any potential triggers before you continue reading.

“It sounds like you’d be taking away her free will,” Bill said as he caressed Fleur’s hair back and away from her face. 

They were in bed. Fleur had just arrived home from one of her visits to her clan in France. She was telling Bill how her clan elders again were urging her to claim her mate and what that entailed. 

“That’s not it at all, you just don’t understand. You’re not-” She pulled away from him sharply and sat up against the headboard. She was offended, and fought hard not to bare her teeth at her husband.

“Veela, I know. How could I forget? But neither is she, and you’d do well to remember that.” The agitation was clear in his voice. This topic always struck a nerve.

Fleur huffed and let her hands busy themselves in her tresses, gathering them back into a loose plait as a small means of distraction. Bill was infuriating and wrong. She felt the beginnings of angry tremors quake through her body. The Veela was quick to rage on the sensitive subject, and Bill knew that. She sometimes wondered if he provoked her on purpose.

“Mind your words and your tone, William. I am Fleur Delacour-”

“Fleur  _ Weasely _ ,” he corrected her.

“Only by name! Only on paper!” She roared out, loath to be reminded of that binding contract, of her uncompleted bond, and to have who she truly was so easily pushed aside. Anger burst and roiled like magma low in her belly. Tremors turned to seismic shakes, and the Veela tried desperately to still herself. Fists balled tightly, muscles clenched and cramped to try to shut down the angry convulsions.

A Veela suppressing her nature was a volatile creature indeed. Denying one's nature, particularly one's bond with a mate, had deleterious effects on Veela. Fleur had been experiencing them first hand for years. At first it had started with bouts of irritability, rash behavior, increased energy levels and libido; her body trying to push her to claim what was hers. During the Triwizard Tournament she had done her best to harness the extra energy into her performance with some success. Then when she had left Hogwarts after the school year ended, the time and distance away from her mate led to a new set of symptoms. She was overcome by feelings of hopelessness and desperation, had trouble focusing, and couldn’t sleep or slept too much. Eventually the two varying sets of symptoms began to almost cycle, oscillating from one extreme to the other over the course of weeks.

These effects had been seen enough in Veela before. Clans had ways to support and stabilize their own who were struggling to accept their natures. But for a Veela to deny one's natural and magical impulses for as long as Fleur had, the effects and changes were even more severe. The denial of the sacred bond impacted her magic, mind and physical being in perverse ways, and at times seemed to cost Fleur pieces of her humanness. Fury, hunger, resentment, and instincts insistent were often brewing beneath the surface. Treatment was difficult and less well known, as Veela typically never let their condition go on for so long. They usually returned to harmony with their nature and the effects would resolve. The stage that Fleur found herself in now was a rare one for Veela to reach, even more rare than a Veela imprinting on a human. 

“More than you will ever be a Granger, or that she would be a  _ Delacour.” _

An inhuman wail assaulted Bill’s senses. He threw his hands immediately over his ears and stumbled out of the bed and onto his knees. He kept his eyes trained on his wife as best he could as she became a blur, throwing herself to her feet and tearing about the bedroom. He only just dodged out of the way as Fleur sent an antique chair throttling toward his head. It shattered against the wall above him, shards of wood flying in every direction. The Veela’s fury only intensified at seeing the object of her rage go unscathed due to his quickly cast  _ protego. _ The molten heat rose from the depths of her bowels and overflowed into her chest.

“You know not of what you speak! You know nothing! You... you....” 

She felt hot viscous hate seethe and turn into twisted rank poison within her. She felt it spreading through her limbs, thick and scalding through her veins. Felt it harden and crack the skin on her hands to scales, snap those bones into claws with talons, and coat her lungs and throat until she was almost choking on it. 

Fleur watched as Bill scrambled across the room to create more distance. She saw clearly the fear present in his eyes, and then watched as it morphed into an eerie calm. His breaths were labored, but coming under his control again. He brushed red locks from his face and curled them behind his ears.

“I know this, and so do you: that if you want her to have the normal life she deserves, after everything she’s been through and done for our world; that if you don’t want Hermione to be hurt, or worse; and if-” 

“If I don’t want her hate, revulsion and resentment, that I need to let her go. How could I forget? With you reminding me all the time,” she spat out the familiar reasons and words with her eyes narrowed on Bill. The terrible ache in her jaw was almost too much as she tried to bite back the rest of the transition. 

Bill was silent for a few moments before slowly walking to Fleur’s vanity. Keeping his body facing toward her, never presenting his back, he reached for the silver hand mirror given to Fleur by her grandmother. 

“Fleur, I care about you. And I care about Hermione. And I care about you enough to be honest with you. To be truthful.” He picked up the mirror and trailed his fingers along its intricate engravings, considered it with his hands, before looking back to Fleur. He straightened his back and pushed out his chest before continuing.

“ _ I _ am your soulmate, Fleur.  _ I _ -”

A bloodcurdling shriek ripped from the Veela’s throat and shook the room, causing frames to fall from walls, items atop varied surfaces in the room to topple to the floor, and Bill to tumble backward onto the vanity chair. The magma and wrath within her thin frame was bubbling and boiling to eruption. 

The sacrilege, the affront of his words, caused something to snap within the woman. And then there was great pain. 

The Veela’s face began to open, split and fracture. Plumage and scales shredded through skin across her body. Her screams turned to screeches and squawks and howls. As soon as the transformation was complete, she shook away the agony and honed in on the redhead, prepared to make him suffer.

In a quick and well-practiced move, Bill threw his hands forward to cast the mirror before the Veela. It had its intended effect, for as soon as Fleur caught a glimpse of her reflection, she stopped dead in her tracks. 

The once beauteous Veela was now a horrific sight to behold. Vibrant azure eyes turned the color of decay. Where majestic, refined, white and golden plumage once covered her being, there were now grotesque, angry, gray and black scales and feathers. In place of a regal beak was a crooked and gnarled one. And her wings, her beloved wings, what had become of them? Large, misshapen, with no trace of her glorious plumes. Instead they were bones extended long, covered with stretched, leathery skin. And the gore. Blood, bits of torn flesh, and the viscid poison that ran through her veins, covered her. This was nothing like the stunning transformations she had undergone when she had been healthy.

_ She was a monster. _

“She will fear you, Fleur. She will revile you. And she will have reason to.” Bill’s voice cracked as Fleur reached out to take the heirloom from his hands. “You cannot control yourself, especially when it comes to her. You cannot contain this beast within you, and it cannot give her what she needs, because you don’t understand what she needs. You will hurt her, and she will fear you, because you will never understand our kind and we will never understand yours.” His voice steadied and became more sure as the Veela continued to gaze upon herself. 

After several heaving breaths, an anguished and pathetic whine escaped the Veela and quickly turned into sobs. Her clawed hands began to tremble and shake as she held the silver frame delicately. 

“But  _ I _ know you, Fleur. And  _ I  _ understand you. I see  _ you _ . I am truly the one.Your one.” 

He gently pulled the mirror from her hands and laid it back on the vanity. The Veela continued to emit her woeful yowls. Her nature was unable to accept her husband’s words, but her mind was unable to deny the truth in them. She was a danger to her fragile human mate. She-

Bill stepped closer and interrupted her downward spiral by pulling her into his arms. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t turn away.

“‘A soulmate is a mirror,’ Fleur. ‘The person that shows you everything that is holding you back, the person-’” the redhead began to recite. 

“-The person who brings you to your own attention,” she continued, sending the words from her mind to his. “‘... so you can change your life,” Fleur finished, cries turning to quiet whimpers.

“I  _ am _ your soulmate, Fleur. Not because of some magical, predetermined bond out of your control. No, but because I see you, and I show you, and I understand you in a way that she never could. That no one ever could. Finally accept that and you could be happy and in control of your own life for once.” 

Her Veela rejected and was disgusted by his assertion. Hermione, and Hermione alone, was Fleur’s mate, but she stifled a snarl for she understood what he was saying and offering. What the two rehearsed and revisited so many times to assuage both of their anxieties and fears. Fleur lifted her eyes to scan the cursed wounds upon Bill’s face. They were deep, jagged, and grotesque; his monster one he could not hide from the world. 

“You are  _ not _ my soulmate,” she conveyed calmly but firmly.

“But I am!” He insisted. Something wild flashed within his eyes, and his gentle embrace became hard and possessive.

“You are not, Bill. And you never will be,” Fleur continued, but the tone she used was soft. She hushed him as he opened his mouth to object, then raised a talon and gently caressed its outer curvature over his scars. Over one, and then another, and then another, until his hold on her began to lose its severity. It didn't go unnoticed by the Veela that Bill did not once wince or gasp at the contact. He looked at her as if she were still the glorious and beautiful heiress he first met, and not the hideous monster she was now. 

“You are not, but I accept you as my husband, Bill. My mirror. My husband." She said the last words as much to herself as to him.

The feral look in Bill’s eyes began to diminish, and with it, Fleur’s Veela form began to fade away. Scales, feathers, talons, beak and wings receded and vanished as if they were never there. Skin healed scarless as the molten outrage within her began to cool.

“I am your husband, your mirror. And you are my wife, and  _ my  _ soulmate,” he said with conviction. “Fleur, I love you and I want what’s best for you. And that’s me. Not your clan and not her. She will destroy you if you pursue her.”

Bill watched his wife, and as if he could see her heart hardening just a little more to stone, he tacked on his assurances.

“I will watch over her. And so will my family. Us and Harry, and the Order too. We will take care of her. I promise.”

“You will truly help her? In the ways she really needs it?” The Veela sat up, studying the Weasley with intensity. 

“Yes, I promise.”

“And you will tell me? Tell me everything? So that I know she is ok and that this is the right choice?” The Veela grabbed onto her husband's forearm with one unclawed hand, and the back of his neck with her other, forcing him to hold her gaze. Bill took a large dry swallow. 

“I’ll tell you everything." His eyes shifted several times before he was brave enough to meet hers. "I'll tell you everything and you will see, Fleur. She will be ok, and it will be because you will be letting her kind tend to her. We understand her, she is one of us. But you cannot interfere. You cannot intervene. Promise me, Fleur.” 

“And why is that?” She demanded. She did not like the desperation in his tone.

“Because you will ruin her. And that will ruin you.” 

Heat to poison to igneous stone in Fleur's heart. She steeled herself. 

“You and your family will make sure she is ok? That her-” a rogue sob escaped the Veela, but she composed herself quickly. “That her needs are met? That she blossoms again?”

Fleur was trying to smother the inferno violent within her at the idea of others taking care of her mate; of her relinquishing that sacred responsibility. No one had the ability to make Hermione bloom more than her Fleur, but no one else had the ability to hurt her the way Fleur did either. This battle waged inside her every time they had this fight. So many many times they had this fight, exchanged these words, already.

“Yes, Fleur. Yes. I promise. I’ll do everything in my power and so will my family. As long as you let her be, and…”

“And what?”

“And as long as you honor us, honor this. Our marriage.” He waited a beat before adding, “and that includes keeping your clan out of our relationship.” 

Bill looked simultaneously nervous and resolute. This insistence at keeping information from her clan was a relatively new development. It was as if it was another bond he was trying to dissolve, leveraging it against her bond and care for Hermione. She felt powerless and played. She may have been the one of predatory creature blood and magic, but it was Bill who seemed to prey upon weakness. 

A snarl started low until, "I hate you," spilled out of her mouth. 

His grip on her tightened painfully and he let out his own wolfish growl. 

"You can't reach her without us!" Spit was bursting from his mouth. “We are her family! You couldn't touch her, could never reach her, without me. She needs us, and she doesn't. Need. You.”

Liquid fire again was set aflame in the core of her being, but it would not do to burn for the sake of burning. Not when Bill wasn’t wrong. Not when the alternative was risking Hermione’s wellbeing. Fleur didn’t care if she herself got hurt, but she couldn’t bear the thought of her mate suffering any more. She could, and her instincts told her that she should, sever Bill’s jugular in an instant for the ways he thought he could speak to her and touch her over the years. But he wasn’t wrong. And she needed to know Hermione was ok, and how she was doing. She willed her body’s temperature to stop from rising, her muscles to lax, and felt her mind start to float. 

She wasn’t sure how she had let things get so far, how she had come to this existence of being lost and drifting between two worlds. Her mother and grandmother rued the day they granted her permission to go on her year abroad to Hogwarts to enter the Triwizard Tournament. That year was a blessing and a curse, they constantly said. That’s when it had all begun: Fleur’s fascination with understanding wizards and witches on a more deeper level. She had found her mate, and her mate was a witch after all. 

Years. She had wasted years since trying to rationalize, abide by, and assimilate to their moral codes and logic. She had committed her body, magic and mind to their cause, all for Hermione. This war affected her mate, and her mate as an integral piece of it, and thus Fleur had sworn herself to the Order of the Phoenix to see the right side and her mate’s safety to the end. Her clan watched on, disapproving of Fleur’s path to her mate, but not forsaking her. They provided counsel, discouraged her from continuing, urged her to follow their ways, and continually reminded her of what awaited her when she either came to her senses or completed her journey to her mate. Her place, and one for Hermione, would still be open for her when she was ready to return to them and to their way of life, and claim what was rightfully hers. 

_ “You should have just taken her as soon as you sensed her. Brought her home _ ,” her elders would click and cluck in their native tongue. 

Perhaps so, perhaps not. She was never sure. And it didn’t matter anymore. Fleur was committed to Hermione’s safety and happiness, and that meant staying away. She turned her mind to more pleasant thoughts and memories. She had few of the wild-maned brunette, but those she had she cherished. 

Hermione in the library hunched over scrolls, quills and books. Hermione laughing with her friends during the few moments they had where the trio wasn’t overwhelmed by danger and near-certain-death looming over them. Hermione gorgeous in a gown, seemingly gliding down the grand staircase. Hermione safe in Fleur’s bed, waited on hand and foot by the Veela. Hermione with the weight of the wizarding world lifted off of her shoulders when Voldermort was vanquished. 

It was well practiced by now to cut those memories off short as soon as they finished, as to let her mind wander with each was to invite in bitterness and regret. She should have approached the Gryffindor in the library the first time she saw her there and begun the courtship immediately. She should have been a reason for Hermione’s laughter and joy. She should have been the one to have the Gryffindor on her arm during the Yule Ball. Hermione should never have been captured, been in the war to begin with, and instead waited on hand and foot by Fleur, in a bed and home of their own with the clan in France. Hermione and Fleur, instead of working to defeat Voldermort, should have been under mentorship and training to take over the clan. She had to learn to cut off the memories quickly, yes; as the bitterness and regret only fed the toxic venom in her veins. 

But she was not perfect, and it was difficult to stop her thoughts from taking her to darker places as time wore on. Regret would take hold and pull in anguish, jealousy, and indignation. Sometimes they led her to dark fantasies, her Veela trying to seduce her into claiming her mate as she was meant to. It would be so easy. All Fleur would have to do was go to her, initiate the bond, sow the seeds, and nourish them with her thrall. Give the witch a taste, and it would be over as soon as it began. To hell what was right and proper by human standards. Hermione was Fleur’s, and it was the Veela prerogative to take and to have one's mate completely. There was simply no reason not to. It was their way. It would be so easy. So easy.

_ “Fleur. Fleur.” _

She heard her name being called from somewhere far off, but it was too tempting for her to remain in her mind. She could have Hermione there. Consume her, care for her, take from her, own her heart the way she unknowingly owned the Veela’s. Own her physically in such a way that the smart brunette would beg Fleur to never stop. It would be so easy. So easy. Fleur knew exactly what she would do to her witch’s body, and what she would have the witch do to hers. Was it wrong of her to think this way? Not according to the ways of Veela, no. Wrong according to the ways in which Hermione lived by? Yes. But if Fleur took Hermione, then Hermione’s old ways would be gone and it would be the Veela ways, culture, logic and code she would live by. And then, well, then it wouldn’t be wrong at all. It would be their way.  _ Their _ way. So easy. 

“Fleur, are you with me? Fleur?” The voice broke through her thoughts. Bill at some point had brought her to the bathroom, undressed her, placed her in the tub, and was cleaning the ichor off her body with a washcloth when she came to. 

She blinked her vision clear. Still in Shell Cottage. Still with Bill. Still without Hermione. Still unbonded. She could hardly bear it. Fleur silently bid goodbye to the fantasy in her mind that she knew she could not bring to life, not without violating her mate. She looked upon her husband and sighed before nodding slightly. He prompted her to close her eyes and then used a small basin to pour water over her head. 

“I love you, Fleur. I love you. I know this is hard, and sometimes you may feel that you hate me. But, you have to understand, this is for you. And for us.” 

The empty Veela said nothing. Bill fetched a towel and she stood and let him dry her and wrap her in it. 

“I love you, Fleur. And I know you love me too. Thank you for accepting this.” 

The Veela remained quiet as her husband led her to bed. He pulled the covers back for her before getting in himself and turning the lights out.

“She was at the dinner tonight?” 

“Yes.” He reached out and stroked her hand with his fingertips.

“She is eating well? She is a good weight? Healthy?”

“Yes. We had beef casserole tonight and she had several helpings. She looks good. In fact, she may need to start minding what she eats.” Bill ran his hand up Fleur’s arm softly.

“She is talking? Sharing?”

“Yes. She is working full time, shining, standing out. She seems to have a clever mind for business. And she’s writing. And she goes out with Ron, Harry and Ginny often.” He leaned in close and pecked a kiss on her collarbone, then neck.

“What about her studies? What about therapy? What about her ambitions? What about a… partner?” 

And on the questions went, as they did every Sunday night when they both returned from dinner with their respective families. Each question answered would be rewarded with more access to Fleur’s body. According to Bill, Hermione was thriving. This was the point of her distance after all. Such a good, bright, and independent witch needed to live a life free from the clutch of fate, claims, and bonds of Veela. Such a giving, heroic Gryffindor deserved to pursue a life of her own dreams, imaginings, and making; not be forced into the roles required of her as the mate of a creature clan leader. Such a wounded woman, used and traumatized over and over again by her society in a war that unfairly impacted her kind, deserved to process and overcome things in the ways natural to her blood, magic, and mind. She could no longer be used, or taken, or have things decided for her, forced upon her, or have her future set according to anything else but her own wants and wishes and needs. 

To claim her and everything it entailed would be to take away her autonomy, Bill always told her. Would be to throw away what she had fought so hard for, and deserved. It would be a disgrace. And she would never be happy, could never be happy that way, no wizard or witch could. Bill told her these things every time, especially when he was tired with questions and hungry for more from his wife.

She listened to Bill’s answers every Sunday night, but lately, more often than not, his answers did not sit right with her. She didn’t know as much as others about the bright witch, but she knew studies and ambition were important to her. Bill never brought up either topic, and did not directly or fully answer questions Fleur asked about them. She was always certain those would be a part of a full and vibrant life for Hermione. And Fleur knew Hermione didn’t like beef casserole enough to finish even one full helping, let alone take several. The brunette once said she found it too heavy, and all casseroles in general. Fleur stopped making them at Shell Cottage after Hermione had said that. And she knew the witch was not one to go out to socialize often; that she was more of an introvert. And she knew Harry’s job had been taking him out of the country on and off over the past few months, and that Ginny’s schedule was just as hectic and full. 

Something wasn’t right. She couldn’t even bring herself to pretend or fantasize while Bill was touching her. Something was wrong. Not only with what she knew, but with what she felt. Although their bond was never initiated, Fleur could feel Hermione distantly, vaguely, at times over the years. But over the past few months she had felt the connection more keenly, and what she had been feeling was something akin to a flame burning low. These past few weeks she felt that flame flickering in a way that confused and concerned her. She told these things to her clan, and that is why they urged her again to take her mate. Something wasn’t right. 

“I can’t stop talking to my clan about this,” she broke the silence that fell between them after Bill had finished. “After all, it is the clan that is keeping me stable. They are the ones that gave me the amulet that balances me.” She fingered the small sapphire necklace that she never took off. “And when I visit we do a restorative practice. They need to be informed well enough to keep my condition under control.” 

He rolled off of her. “I’m not sure it’s even worth it, Fleur. I mean, look at what happened tonight.” 

_ Indeed _ , Fleur thought to herself. She trusted the ancient magic of her flock more than she trusted almost anything else. These changes in her connection with Hermione, and her transformation right after coming home from France, were not due to any failings on their part. She remained quiet as she contemplated. Bill eventually spoke up again, seemingly taking her quiet as defensiveness.

“I understand that they are your family and they are trying to help. Just, please. Please honor us with some privacy. Tell them just enough for them to help you, not enough to armor them with judgement. You have to try with us too, Fleur. That’s part of the deal.” 

She remained silent. Something wasn’t right.

“Fleur I need you to agree to this.”

Still she said nothing, but after a few moments gave a hum of acknowledgement. It would be so easy.

Relief washed over the redhead and he let out a breath. 

“I love you.”

“Goodnight, William.”

She would seek out and speak to Molly in the morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive how slow everything has been being updated. I'm trying my best. I promise.

**Author's Note:**

> School can be a bit overwhelming. YCHMH will be updated as soon as my brain starts to solidify again. Until then, a short multi-chap emerges.  
> This story is dedicated to Kamaro0917 for her tireless work as lead Undertaker.


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